


Summer Ice.

by bad besties for life (doubleinfinity)



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man/Deadpool - Joe Kelly (Comics)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Character Study, Comeplay, Comfort, Crying, Deep dive, Developing Relationship, Dirty Talk, Emotions, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Grinding, Hand Jobs, Krav Maga, Love Confessions, M/M, Martial Arts, Masturbation, Play Fighting, Porn with Feelings, Power Bottom Peter, Rimming, Sekiro - Freeform, Slice of Life, Sparring, THEIR kind of life, Voyeurism, Well - Freeform, as always, back and forth during sex, bunk beds, chillin around the apartment, endless banter, focus on personhood instead of superherodom, service top wade, video games - Freeform, vulgar and quite honestly offensive brand of wade wilson dirty talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2020-01-11 06:40:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18424974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doubleinfinity/pseuds/bad%20besties%20for%20life
Summary: Spiderman/Deadpool, teamup comics.They decide they're gonna try taking the weekends off.Slice of Life. Emotional Porn. Real Porn.Video Games | Krav Maga | Sex | 911 Calls





	Summer Ice.

**Author's Note:**

> cw: mentions and non-graphic depiction of domestic violence.
> 
> This is a completely different style than usual, but let's give it a try? <3  
> Barely a plot, we're just sort of following them around.  
> (spot the 3 second mcr line in the narrative).

Deep August has settled in, and even though it’s hot as fuck in the city of Queens, when Wade looks across the room, he sees a snowstorm raging in his LED monitor.

Peter Parker is straddling his computer chair, using the headboard as a surface to rest his hands on as they knuckle the PS4 controller. For reasons that are altogether mystifying, Peter is suited up in full Spidey gear at 10am on his day off, those khol-colored cat eyes sharp enough to slit a throat, pretty enough to stop a heart. The white, glowing mesh narrows in concentration as a faroff roar fills the speakers.

Without another warning, the giant snake comes barreling through the snow-torn mountains. Spidey’s fingers clack furiously against the buttons.

He whines aloud as his character thrown into oblivion yet again, a huge _death_ symbol appearing on screen. Legs strew to either side, he presses against the chair in frustration, because even in the most unlikely of situations, Webs is nothing short of a wet dream.

Propped against the far wall, Wade is lounging on his top bunk with an arm tucked behind his head, the other holding his phone up to his face. The crop top he’s wearing exposes huge quantities of skin, because in another unlikely scenario, his body is treating him right today.

It’s picked a good day for it, too. It’s hot as sriracha-tossed balls in the apartment.

“You’re not being patient, Webs,” Wade clicks, scrolling lazily through a subreddit. “Remember that time you spent an hour sneaking into Mysterio’s lair through the vents? Channel some of that energy.”

“On it,” Peter mumbles, arching his shoulders attentively. He respawns and heads back in the direction of the bridge, where snow starts whipping violently across the screen. God, just looking at it makes Wade feel less uncomfortable.

The black-haired protag doesn’t seem too thrilled about it, though. Spidey lowers him into a crouch and has him slip around a path in the mountain, avoiding the serpent’s field of vision altogether.

A pulse of blue fills the screen. In the background, the giant snake suddenly rears its head, and the in-game camera focuses in as it slithers forward to fill the monitor. Peter lets go of the controller, letting it balance untouched on the chair’s headboard. He throws his hands in the air and holds his breath.

Then the serpent screams and smashes the fuck into him, whipping his character dead onto the ground.

“God damn it,” he growls, jabbing a button. He doesn’t even bother to use the resurrection he earned.

Wade lets his phone drop into his bedsheets and turns his full attention on Peter. Webs _has_ to wear the suit on their day off because he knows it makes Wade’s pulse bang louder than Judge Judy’s hammer when a defendant is trying to piss on her leg and tell her it’s raining...

...Right?

It _can’t_ just be what he does. Because if that’s so, Wade is going to have to call the nearest tv personality judge to report his own murder.

He reaches out his free hand, fingers outstretched. “Lemme see?”

Sighing defeatedly, Peter hits continue and stands up, doing a lightning round of stretches. Then his hands hit the far wall of Wade’s room and he’s suddenly crawling, like the spider he is, up to the ceiling.

The merc watches as Peter grips the plaster with the sticky, oily substance on his fingers and scampers across the ceiling, traversing the room and bypassing the bunk-bed ladder; God, and for the love of all that matters in this world, Wade knows he won’t ever be able to shake the mental image of Peter upside down, spider-crawling towards him.

One he’s above the top bunk, Spiderman arches his neck to look down, and Wade can see him calculating space and distance and depth in a way that he can’t even fathom.

“Jesus,” he mutters when Spidey unsticks his hands and curves down like his spine is made of rubber. He fits the controller between Wade’s fingers before grabbing hold of the bed, feet still clinging to the ceiling. Then he swings fully down and settles gracefully onto the bunk, curling up in a crossed-leg position, looking almost inhuman.

“You have no idea how fucking terrifying you are,” Wade purrs, sitting up and grabbing a handful of Spidey thigh. “And I’ve seen some fucked up shit in this game.”

“Ugh, same. Worst of all, my performance. I want to move on with my life,” Peter groans, scooching back until he hits the wall and can lean against it. He takes hold of Wade’s hand and inches it further up his leg. “Avenge my seven deaths, Deadpool.”

“Psh, Spideyboy, you just wanna see me suffer. Well, spoiler alert for Sekiro _and_ this fic, (readers and gamers turn your eyes away): it’s not gonna happen. Serpent’s getting fucked today.”

He leans forward, taking his hand back. He mourns the flesh-to-electronic transition for just a moment and then he’s diving through the landscape, darting across the bridge that has felled many a virtual Spidey. A series of symbols light up above the character’s head as he paths his way through the mountain, fighting and dodging against the white, scaly beast.

Peter blinks and suddenly Wade is diving on top of the serpent, driving his blade down until it gushes blood, screeching. It crumbles onto the ground, and just like that. An hour of his time, done in just a few minutes by another pair of hands.

“Fuck, Wade,” Spidey murmurs, snatching the controller back with a wounded look on his face. “You could have at least pretended it was hard.”

“It _was_ hard,” he concedes, humming. “But I have excellent hand-eye-coordination, Peter, and for the record, I’ll train you in military combat if you want me to. We’ll stop just short of the agonizing torture. Unless that’s what you’re into.”

Spidey turns his head, eyes flicking up and down Wade’s body. “It clearly is,” he responds, not sure if he’s talking about how annoying Deadpool is or how little clothing he has on. Both are fitting. He pauses. “I might actually say yes to that offer.”

A grin lights up Wade’s face. “You know how to please a merc, Spideyboy. Spar me until I hit subspace.”

He’s speaking in general, not about right now, but Peter doesn’t care. He pounces.

Wade’s reflexes are _fast_ , and he catches both of Peter’s wrists in his hands, restraining him. Peter laughs and twists, breaking free. Using the brunt of his self-taught agility, a lot of strength, and a little slipperiness, he grabs for Wade’s neck after distracting him with a feigned blow. Sensing a rare opening, he crushes his fingers against Wade’s neck, pressing down on his jugular.

Suddenly he’s being flipped onto his back, the entire weight of the merc pressing down on him. There are fingers clamped around his shoulders, immobilizing him.

He laughs helplessly, stomach flipping. He’s both scared of and in lust with Wade in this moment, as the older pins him down in a grip that he physically cannot get out of. He thinks of calling on his web shooters, but instead, he lets himself be got. Eight legs to the wall.

Wade grins after a moment, letting up. His breathing is heavy.

“Don’t worry, I’ll teach you how to get out of any restraint. Even my best ones. No secrets in this brain are safe from you, Webs.”

Aching a little, Spiderman leans up on his elbows. “I find that disturbingly comforting.”

“Why, am I not an open book?” He smiles with all his teeth, even the gold ones in the back.

“Nah, it’s not that-”

“Because at least I don’t wear head-to-toe spandex in the ninety degree weather. Who the fuck does that?”

Peter laughs, letting himself lie down on the bed. “Tony helped me build a suit with climate control. It’s a comfortable sixty in this thing right now.”

“Wow, it’s sixty degrees for you and you couldn’t even kill that boss? I was rooting for you, Webs, and you didn’t even deserve my sympathy.”

Peter lunges up playfully, wrestling with the other’s arms, posted like pillars on either side of him. He could play dirty if he wanted to, using a range of techniques that span from groin kicks to webbing Wade to the ceiling.

Instead, he meets brute force with resiliency, slipping through Wade’s arms and jumping for the wall. He grabs it, flitting through Wade’s grasp, and then pounces onto the older’s back, latching on like a parasite.

“You made good on the serpent, but the spider still is unfucked,” he says lowly, growling in Wade’s ear.

“Jesus Christ,” Wade answers back, going limp. He turns his head to look at the younger on his back. “Why don’t you take off that mask and join the rest of us in the hothouse? You’re too... god damn scary when you’re in there. Frankly.”

Pulling the mask off his face and flinging it to the floor, Peter gives a wide smile, his brown hair ruffled.

“And yet I’m still having a heart attack.” Wade turns and drops onto his back with a heavy reverberation, letting Peter lounge on top of him. His eyes sweep down Peter’s front. “Go easy on me, Webs. You’re more than I’ve had in a long time.”

Spidey leans down and kisses him, letting them get tangled up in each other. His gloves come off to run his hands down Wade’s arms, over his exposed midriff, between his thighs. Wade squeezes his legs together and traps Peter’s hand before he can keep exploring, thrusting up with a groan.

“Whose dick do I have to suck to get on Saint Peter’s good side?” he asks in a thick voice, his arms wrapped around Peter, pawing messily at his shoulders.

“Mmm, probably Saint Peter’s.” He buries his head into the crook of Wade’s neck and mouths at his pulse, sucking on the skin around his collar bones. “But he’s a little too cozy in his air conditioned suit right now, so come again during service hours between-”

Wade shuts him up with a roll of his hips, erection straining against the fabric of his tiny runner’s shorts. “Please?” he offers, his voice quiet, hands roaming down Peter’s back. “I’ll make it up to you.”

Flicking his eyes through his lashes, Peter tilts his head and takes a teasing handful of the orange mesh into his fist. Then he smooths out his palm and runs it up Wade’s cock, squeezing his length through the fabric. The older shivers and looks up at him cloudedly.

He doesn’t know if he should be proud of it, but Peter is subject to any kind of persuasion that doesn’t deface his morals. And Wade’s heavily lidded look of _please, mercy_ when Peter touches him is a powerful game changer.

He gives in. “If I immediately combust, scatter my ashes in Brooklyn,” he sighs, removing his hands to start stripping off the suit.

Grinning, Wade flicks the younger’s away and smoothes his palms around Peter’s torso, peeling the fabric away for him.

“We’ve had some good times in Brooklyn, but I’d never make you rest there eternally. How do you feel about cake?”

“You want me to rest eternally in a cake?”

“Not eternally, more like twelve-ish minutes.” He helps Spidey squirm his way out of the suit until he’s completely naked, the spandex shed like a pair of red skin. “What? I’m a fast eater. I won a contest once, you know. Free funnel cake for life! Do I have to keep explaining myself to you, or can we move on?”

“Wade, I want nothing more to spend my afterlife inside your digestive tract.”

For reasons none of his thought processes want to even touch, that makes Wade’s nethers ache.

“Well give me a taste test, baby boy,” he purrs, running the back of his knuckles down Spidey’s bare front.

Peter sighs, arching forward, when Deadpool’s lips hit his chest.

“Ooh,” he rumbles, “Your skin _is_ cold,” and leans up to take a mouthful of chilled flesh against his tongue before wrapping a hand around Peter’s cock.

“Ice,” he says, voice muffled, “You ever notice how sweet ice tastes in the summertime?”

Peter’s breath hitches, a spiral of heat rolling through him. Wade’s jerking him off in a tight fist, beads of saliva rolling down his chest and hitting his groin. He bucks his hips forward, reveling in anything wet and cool.

“Fuck it’s hot,” Peter pants, putting a hand on Wade’s exposed chest. Sweat rolls down his hairline. “Next time I come in through that window, I’m gonna have an air conditioner.”

Wade grins, leaning back against the bed until his head hits the pillow. He pets Peter’s erection lazily, looking at it hungrily. “You’re right. Gotta conserve my energy. Come’re, Spidey, let me have you in my mouth.”

Two hands reach behind and yank him forward, and it feels almost like Wade’s body heat makes handprints on the chilled globe of his ass. He arches and feels the merc immediately take his cock into his mouth, lips wrapping around him and sucking him down.

He grabs the wall with one hand, steadying himself. The older squeezes his cheeks and then uses the leverage to thrust Peter’s hips forward. Warm and wet and completely unprecedented, the inside of Deadpool’s mouth shocks his body out of the numbness his suit had suspended him in.

“Ah, Wade,” he warns, making a quiet sound when his hips buck forward on their own accord, desperate to fuck the older’s throat. “Oh God, wait, it’s happening too fast.”

Wade pops off, replacing his mouth with his hand.

“You do it,” he suggests, giving Peter a few distracting, irregular strokes.

“You wanna trade positions?” he asks.

“Nah, not what I meant. I want you to jerk yourself off and come all over my face.”

Peter’s face flushes, heat spreading through him. He groans and seizes Wade’s wrist, afraid that each languid stroke is going to ruin him. Then he takes himself into his own hand, testing his current stamina situation with achingly light pressure.

When he’s not going to explode upon contact, he grips himself and starts hitching his hips forward, looking down at Wade.

“Yeah, keep that control, baby,” Wade says with his mouth open, a haze in his unwavering eye contact. “Give me what I asked for.”

Peter closes his eyes and breathes, a half-performative whimper slipping from his throat.

He wouldn’t take orders from the Avengers, but he’ll gladly take these instructions.

When he opens his eyes again, Wade’s mouth is unbearably close to his cock, so close Peter feels his breath. Then he opens his mouth and flashes a wanting pair of eyes up to Peter, like he’s literally expecting to be fed, and Peter’s body seizes with orgasm.

He strokes his hand over himself and lets it build until he’s spurting strings of cum onto Wade, each thrust paired with a sound of effort.

“Mm,” he vocalizes, giving himself another few jerks until his body refuses to offer anything else. He shakes a little as his head comes back down to earth, body strained by the exertion.

“Fuck, Webs,” Wade praises with flashing hot eyes, grabbing the younger and crushing their chests together. “I want you to stay over and do that every night. I need to watch you pleasure yourself on top of me a hundred more times.”

A secondary flush comes bounding through Peter’s body, tugging on all of his neurves. He presses his lips passionately against Wade’s jaw, wet with his own semen, then finds his lips and kisses him deep.

Wade pulls away, his voice gravelly. “Yeah. And then I wanna see you kill that fucking snake all on your own, son.”

“Fuck me tonight,” Peter demands in a small voice, hand pawing over the front of Wade’s shorts, too out of his mind to think about video games. “Take me out training and then take me back here and fuck me.”

Wad purrs aloud.

“You’re gonna be so sore, baby boy,” he laments, a cross between a coo and a laugh. “Your muscles are gonna be aching and you’re gonna feel it, like, you don’t even know how much you’re gonna feel it.”

Peter squirms against Wade’s front. He can’t wait. He can’t fucking wait.

“I want to get-”

The sound of voices jolts them both out of the moment; Peter’s head shoots up in the direction of the commotion, his body stiffening and mind clearing. The yelling escalates into banging, and though Wade is still tangled up in his limbs, sweaty and panting, Peter’s pulse runs cold.

But then Wade just groans, the back of his head hitting the pillow. “Ugh, shitty neighbors. Always fighting, total boner killer.”

Peter frowns, his entire body on alert, the post-orgasmic bliss washed completely away. “Sounds like a pretty heavy fight,” he says through heavy breaths. “It’s regular?”

He shrugs. “Crime rate spikes in the summer.” Somebody screams and something breaks, though maybe not quite in that order. Peter catches the moment that Wade’s eyes flick up in a moment of concern.

“Wade,” Peter says, speaking to that flicker of doubt, “What the hell? You need to intervene.”

When Wade looks him in the eye, expression guardedly critical, Peter feels like he’s about to be bucked off of the older’s lap, all recent memories of passion foregone.

“ _You_ intervene, baby boy,” he says, his tone not particularly gentle anymore. “You know the right way to stop some deadbeat dad from smacking his wife around, you go for it.”

A thrum of anger hits Peter. “Wade,” he hisses harshly, pressing down heavily on the older’s shoulders. It’s just an instinct, a reflex, but he bears down as though Deadpool is a true threat. “You’re acting like a dick again.”

If Peter were still suited up, Wade might once again be scared shitless by the cold, sterile kind of rage that turns the Spiderman suit into a deadly armor. What’s more, the sight of the male’s unmasked face is usually enough to turn down the heat on any negative emotion bubbling to the surface.

But Wade can see the angry flush of red on Peter’s cute cheeks, and instead of terror or affection, he feels trapped.

“Intervene how?” he asks sharply, his voice biting. “I stopped killing because you wanted me to, Peter, and you expect me to go up there and look that piece of shit in the eye and _not_ do everything I can to stop it? What then, you want me to threaten him? Get him in a cell for 24 hours so he can come back even angrier? Bullshit, Spideyboy. Bullshit.”

Peter’s stomach swirls with conflict. “If you know what’s happening, you’re responsible for it,” he states in a low and careful voice, trying to temper himself.

Wade makes a cruel snorting sound.

“The only reason I know it’s happening is because I had to move into this tiny apartment in the first place. Why? Cause all my money is in reserve because I don’t have an income anymore. An income, which I’ll remind you, was already taking care of these issues.”

“In the wrong way, Wade.”

“In the _effective_ way, Spidey.”

He might be acting contentious as fuck, but when Peter looks at him dead-on, he sees that Wade’s face is twisted in pain.

“Not all of us are spirited like you,” he says quietly. “You do everything you can, Peter, I know that. But the system isn’t on our side. People aren’t like us. _I_ wasn’t like us until I met you.”

The sound of the fight has died away, Peter realizes, although the dread of it still hangs heavy in his stomach. When he looks at the ways Wade has changed for him, he usually feels pride. Now he just feels a sickened kind of guilt.

“There’s always a way to help,” he murmurs anyways, arms shaking from the powerhouse clutch they’ve put on Wade. “There’s always a way to change the system. We start by setting an example. You changed. Anyone can.”

Staring up at the ceiling, Wade can’t help but let it pour over him; even if he was still a contract killer, even if he wasn’t doing everything he could to be the kind of person Spidey wanted him to be, what could he do?

Kill the man, make him disappear? And then what? Leave the family to fend for themselves? Get them kicked out onto the streets when they suddenly can’t pay rent anymore?

It’s too fucking complicated. All of it. All solutions. Look how it turned out for him: his dad was carted away for abuse and Wade was immediately thrown into the foster-care grinder, suddenly with a dozen more hands on him, plucking at his youth. It’s whack-a-mole, and sometimes the new moles are so much fucking worse than the first ones.

Wade’s face squeezes and Peter wonders if he’s going to cry, but then he just smiles, the sight somber and yet tender enough to light up and eat away all of Peter’s anger.

“I love that about you, Webs,” he says honestly. “I _love_ that about you. You really believe in yourself. In the good of people. I can’t even imagine what it’s like to live that way.”

But maybe, despite all of the horrors he’s been through, Peter helps him start to believe it too.

The younger looks down at him, frowning hesitantly. Wade just smiles.

“You suck at combat games but god damn are you good at everything else.”

Peter hovers weakly for another second, all the fight draining out of him, and finally lets Wade gather him up into his arms, crushing him in an embrace so tight he feels his muscles twitch. As soon as the older lets him go, he just wraps his own arms back around Wade, pulling him close.

Their bodies are sticky, skins hot, as they press against each other. Slowly, they let themselves calm back down, eyes closing.

Wade puts a hand in his hair and holds it there, keeping Peter clutched tight.

“I might still kill someone, Peter, if I needed to. If it was the only way. If it was the best solution.” He swallows. “I know you think there are always other ways, but I dunno if I can ever get behind that kind of optimism. I just don’t agree with the blanket statement.”

Spidey sighs, looking over the landscape of Wade’s pocked and scarred body. “I know,” he says quietly, mulling it over. “If you did what you really thought you had to, I guess… Well, I’d still be proud of who you are.”

He feels Wade take in a breath that makes the older’s entire body shudder.

“I don’t want you to change, Webs. I don’t want to pollute you.”

“You won’t. But I appreciate that.”

“You just… you can’t save them all.”

No, Peter knows that, even when he can’t accept it. But at least he has saved Wade. Saved him from loneliness, from… emptiness.

No, not just Wade. Himself too.

-

They wait until later in the evening before they start to spar.

By 6pm it’s less sweltering outside, the sun low in the sky with its brilliance torn to pieces by the trees all around them. The lake that they’re at makes the air cooler, and Peter sinks his bare feet into the shaded, gritty sand, drinking it all up.

“Put your right foot behind you,” Wade guides him, a few feet away, “Fists up, loose, in front of your face. Reposition all your weight so that if I pushed you, you’d be able to catch yourself on your back leg.”

Peter follows hesitantly, surprised when his body accepts the stance as natural. He’s not weak or clumsy, he’s just never had formal training.

To his left, the lake laps quietly against the shore. Even obscured by trees, the setting sun gleams off the murky water, and all he can hear are splashes in the water and the forest rustling whenever the wind rolls through. It’s his favorite place, a private oasis, a hidden part of the bank that Peter goes to whenever he’s upset.

But even with the calm quietness of it, he still feels upset about earlier. Angry and helpless.

It must show on his face, because Wade’s fighting stance loosens as he tilts his head and says, interestedly, “Brooding Spidey might be my favorite. Second only to flirty, vainglorious Spidey.”

Peter feels suspended in his own transparency but doesn’t know how to deflect it.

“Isn’t there a thing about not taking your anger to martial arts class?” he quips in a monotone voice.

“That’s the shooting range. And nah grasshopper, that’s fuel for the winning. Anyways, you won’t feel your emotions a couple of minutes.”

For a bit, Wade simply walks him through the steps: combination drills, tacked on kicks, added jabs and crosses, reminders about his stance. It’s slow-going and gentle.

But after about ten minutes of practice, he sees exactly what Wade means.

Every time he gets comfortable with a combination, Wade adds a new component: he asks for a kick, or an extra jab. He starts moving around in a circle that Peter has to follow. He lunges forward at Peter’s face when the younger forgets to return his fists to their resting spot.

“Four.”

Peter swings his fists in the four combination, panting. His knuckles strike Wade’s palms, skin stinging with each collision.

“Two. And kick.”

He obeys. Wade boxes him gently in the face when he lets his arms drop to his side.

“Fuck,” Peter says breathlessly, raising his fists and going in for a three. He clenches his teeth when the hook sends a vibration of pain up his elbow, making him gasp. He grabs his arm and hunches over.

Wade follows him down, putting an arm on his shoulder.

“It’s a lot,” he agrees, helping guide Peter onto the sandy ground. “We can build on it another day.”

Peter falls onto his ass and rubs his sore knuckles, wincing. “I only lasted, what, 45 minutes? I promise, if your palms aren’t bruised for _at least_ five hours, I’m sticking a straw into you and drinking your healing factor.”

Letting himself tumble to the ground, Wade laughs. “We’d usually use mitts and pads for this, but I dunno, we’ve got both a little superpower to pick up the slack. And when are you gonna go into combat with boxing gloves on?” He looks at Peter’s pinkened face, hair slicked back with sweat. “You look cute. And tired. You good?”

“Ugh, I will be,” he groans, digging his fingers into the ground. He shovels sand and grains of rocks through his fingers. “Can we do a couple chokes? I want to know how to get out when I’m exhausted.”

Wade grins. “Speakin’ my fucking language, dreamboy.”

Wade pushes him onto his back and then moves to straddle him, showing Peter the motions it takes to flip someone over. Wade’s manner once more becomes authoritative, instructive, observant, and it throws Peter completely off center. He’s never seen him quite like this. It’s a kind of control buried deep in Wade’s erratic exterior, and Peter has only ever glimpsed it before. He responds by not holding back when Wade wraps a hand around his throat.

“Good, take a fistful of my shirt,” Deadpool approves, even though he quickly shakes him off. “But you forgot the left hand.”

Peter pulls back and then slams his elbow against Wade’s collars, grabbing his shirt in the other hand, but when he tries to roll, Wade refuses to move.

He makes a frustrated whine, pinned to the ground.

“This is Sekiro all over again,” he admits annoyedly.

“It’s okay, Webs,” Wade hums calmingly, letting up. “You had no training other than what you taught yourself. It’s amazing- like, _unfathomable_ what you’ve done with that. Villains are usually shmucks anyhow. This is just in case you gotta fight someone with training, and you don’t have your suit with you.”

Peter wants to melt into the praise. Instead, he uses Wade’s distractedness as a weapon. Without warning, he bucks his hips and sends Wade plummeting forward. Then he twists, grabbing him around the collar, and flings his body weight to the side.

But instead of flipping Wade over and rolling on top of him, he overdoes it, _throwing_ the merc off of him and sending him sprawling onto his back in the water.

Peter perks up apologetically as soon as he hears the splash.

“Spidey!” Wade calls, some mixture of offense and awe in his voice. He struggles to get his breath back. “Jesus fuck. But good use of superhuman strength!”

On his hands and knees, Peter feels a thrill of pride. Then he pushes himself to his feet and dives on top of Wade before the male can get up, sending him splashing back down into the shallow bank. He mimics punching Wade repeatedly in the face, then grins at Wade’s helpless giggle.

“More drills?” Wade asks when Peter loosens his faux grip.

“God, no.”

“You wanna come back to my place and make good on that promise?”

He grins sheepishly. “Yes.”

It’s a wet drive back (no web slingers and super shoes today) as dusk falls over Queens. With the radio turned down to a 3, it’s comfortably quiet when Peter ruins it by asking how many times Wade has heard his neighbors fighting.

The older makes a thoughtful humming sound, sinking into his seat. Peter’s bothering him with his persistence, but he doesn’t care. There are things more important than placating the assassin that fondles his balls.

“By the way, you’re using my air conditioning _and_ my seat warmer,” Peter adds, just to diffuse the tension.

“Not all of us get portable climate control,” he argues lightly. “Besides, Al Roker told me it was okay.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of Al Gore and my gas bill, but sure.”

Wade leans his head on the passenger’s side window. “What do you want me to do, Spidey? Call the police? Because I will. If you really think it will help, I will.”

Peter grates worriedly on his bottom lip. “Yes,” he decides, “Yes. I want you to.”

When he next glances over, Wade is holding his iPhone to his ear with a sigh, the device looking unnaturally small in his palm. As soon as he starts talking, Peter feels something come loosing in his stomach. Something settles, and he flushes in relief. It’s a sense of control.

He feels like he did during Wade’s makeshift martial arts session: like he’s in control of the situation.

When Wade says thank you and hangs up, he turns to give Peter a forced, unconfident smile.

But Peter is not shaken. At least, he feels, they have done something about it.

-

The apartment is cooler by the time they get back. Heat clings to stuffy quarters, but the open screen in front of Wade’s lower bunk does wonders to offset the poor circulation, letting in a chilly breeze.

That accounts for half of the reason why Peter crawls directly into the bottom bunk. The other half is because his muscles physically can’t get him up a ladder right now, let alone a wall.

“I can’t do that again tomorrow,” he admits when Wade changes shirts and rolls into the bottom bunk with him, immediately going in for a bombardment of kisses. “I need a three day fasting period before I can even move again.” He exposes his neck when Wade moves onto his cheeks and jaw, flushing when the older’s mouth fits wetly against his pulse.

Wade’s arms wrap around him, pulling him into a healthy squeeze. “You’ll get used to it,” he murmurs thoughtfully against Peter’s neck. “Takes time.”

A deep flicker of pleasure runs through Peter’s body when Wade starts massaging his arms, undoing all the tension and strain in such an unrelentless manner that he almost ends up crying with pain. But as soon as Wade lets up, he presses his lips to the younger’s body. That, coupled with the way his ache seems to drain out of him with the massage, is akin to soaking in a warm bath of nectar.

“Jeeze,” Peter says to himself when Wade starts massaging his lower butt, grabbing his cheeks in two squeezing hands. “Is there any muscle you didn’t make me work?”

“I can think of a few. Wanna change that?”

Peter makes a keening sound, grimacing.

“I dunno what that means,” Wade laughs, giving his head a pat. “Too sore to fuck?”

Peter considers. “Eat me out, then we’ll talk.”

Wade makes a rumbling laugh, leaning forward until he’s got Peter sunken into the mattress, pressing up against his back. His breath is hot against Peter’s ear, the outline of his cock pressed hard against the cleft of his ass.

“Let them eat cake. And by them, I mean me.”

“See, you keep making reference to cake, and it’s fucking rude.”

“It can be any kind of cake,” he says in an assuring voice, pulling Peter’s shirt up to press his mouth to his back. “A wedding cake, a cookie cake. _You’re_ the one making it weird.”

“Pick a different food,” he says, trying to keep his voice as stern as possible with the other’s mouth slowly inching down his back.

“Mmm, _aged_ cheddar. A nice bottle of wine, vintage 1983.”

“Wade, I’m about to go into the bathroom and jerk off without you.”

Wade gasps. “I totally believe you.”

“Yeah, so shut up and make your mouth hang as low as your material.”

“Fuck off, Parker,” he smiles affectionately, slipping down until his face is nestled just above Peter’s ass, pressing a kiss to his coccyx. “My jokes are good and you know it. You’re just salty that I can diss you harder than you ever could.”

“I’ll… show you… something salty…?” he tries, failing to milk any wit out of the premise.

“Mmm,” Wade agrees, pulling his cheeks apart and settling in.

Peter makes a soft noise and arches, drawing his legs up and flattening his face into the pillow. At times like these, Wade’s experience shows. Peter might not have been with a ton of men throughout his life, but he knows a good quality tongue when he feels it lapping against his asshole. They haven’t talked a lot about exclusivity. There have been no deep discussions about past partners, no questions about side pieces. But it’s not just the sexual attention that makes Peter feel safe and sound, it’s the god damn electric way Wade looks at him. It scares him.

On the flip-side, it’s the way he sinks right into his comfort zone when Wade’s around. Upset or over the moon, Wade is ready to have him how he comes.

He does come. Accidentally.

With Wade’s mouth licking him open, paired with Wade’s hand, (also slick with saliva and running over his cock at a dangerous speed), his body doesn’t even warn him. Climax rips through his body, crashing over him so intensely that his head goes dizzy.

He gasps in both surprise and exhilaration, bucking his hips into Wade’s face as he comes.

“Fuck,” he pants after a second, lifting his head from the pillow. His head spins. “Wow, so, uh… sorry about that.”

Wade responds by pulling his mouth away. Then, with a bluntness that makes Peter’s body clench, he replaces his tongue with a finger, pressing deep into his hole.

“Don’t think you’re off the hook, baby boy.”

Flushed red, Peter’s body presses back on its own instinct, and he moans as his body clenches around Wade’s digit.

“I’ll milk ya for all you’re worth.”

Peter makes a strangled noise, letting himself fall back into the sheets. He feels Wade grab his hips and twist him around, flopping him onto his back, spent cock still half-hard on his stomach. He flicks his eyes up gently, locking with Wade’s vision.

“What’s wrong, lil powerbottom?” Wade asks, stopping. “Too tired?”

“Kind of, but not really,” Peter answers timidly. He hears his pulse racing in his ears. “I just want to kind of lay back, I guess. If that’s cool.”

Even in his usual… yielding role, Peter always seems to have control over sex: the pace, the roughness, the dissemination of pleasure. He doesn’t want it now. He wants Wade to have it.

“Want me to do the work?” Wade rephrases, but when he says it, he looks like he’s never been more pleased in his entire life.

“Please.”

“Hey, instead of using your table manners, why don’t you tell me what you want?”

Peter shifts, resting the back of his head on the pillow. “Am I ready to be fucked?” he asks, letting his legs spread a little wider.

That’s another thing that serves him well: his comfort with his sexuality. He’s never been bashful about it. He and Wade also work well on that wavelength.

There are a lot of wavelengths they share.

“You tell me,” Wade returns, jostling him from his thoughts. He presses a second finger into Peter along with his first, slowing working past the stretch. “That feel okay?”

“Mm, yeah, I’ll adapt.”

“I know you will,” Wade purrs, looking at him both lovingly and starvingly. He bends down and presses his lips to Peter’s mouth, crawling forward on his knees until his cock is pressed to Peter’s hole, sliding against the slickness of generous amounts of saliva.

He starts pushing in, working Peter open in a new way, and the younger grits his teeth against the intrusion, tears pricking in his eyes as the stretch intensifies.

Wade pulls away with a new kiss to his forehead, sliding back down to mouth at Peter’s entrance, getting a couple more fingers in the mix.

Then he comes back up, running his hands over Peter’s chest, and pushes in again, this time sliding deep into the other’s body.

A flush of warmth falls over the younger, heating his face. He cries out gently when Wade bucks forward once, then again, pushing against the boundaries of his body. Finally he’s fucking Peter with deep, rhythmic thrusts, Peter’s body acceding to the motion. He scrambles, clawing his fingers around to Wade’s back where he can grab hold of him, and pulls the male close to him with each thrust. He kicks himself for already coming, but this is a different kind of sexual pleasure, and it’s every bit as good as the last.

Wade moans and buckles, crashing against his chest. The merc’s hips slam forward, fucking Peter deep and steadily, and Peter once again feels that sense of control that he displayed during their training. Wade is trained in how to move his body effectively and efficiently. He knows how to maximize his outcomes.

Peter realizes that and groans loudly, suddenly aware of himself and the situation he’s in.

“I love you,” he says, not even meaning to, the words clawing their way out of his senseless fucking heart.

A sharp inhale comes from Wade’s nose. The older grabs him and buries his face into Peter’s neck, thrusting fast.

“Fuck, Webs,” he says breathlessly, arms wound around Peter’s chest. They hold him steady for each slam of his hips. “I love you, too.”

Wade kisses him, a deep open-mouthed kiss, and then grabs Peter’s legs, curling them around his torso.

“I wanna make you come again,” he pants, grabbing Peter’s limp cock in his hand. “Want to make you come with me.”

Peter lies back and takes the overstimulation with a whine, letting his legs dangle around Wade’s hips. He feels himself trying to get hard again, but then Wade hitch forward suddenly. He breathes a tiny expletive, marking the moment that he spills inside Peter, body shaking with relief.

Peter jerks up and grabs him, pulling them back into an embrace, and thrusts his hips as the older hisses in pleasure, riding out his orgasm.

“Let me-” he says through clenched teeth, grabbing Peter’s cock, but the younger slaps his hand away.

“Webs?”

“I can’t, Wade,” Peter laughs, leaning back and feeling semen start to drip out of him. “I already had my cake. And ate it too.”

Wade draws back, removing himself. He shudders, orgasm receding slowly, then laughs jaggedly at the joke.

“So many cake jokes,” he says in a strangled voice. “Spidey, it’s so hard to not make them.”

Peter shrugs apologetically and then reaches down to check himself, whipping semen off his fingers. Wade watches gleefully but quickly gets up to find a towel (which ends up being a floor t-shirt) and uses it to clean them both off.

When he lies back down it’s quiet.

Finally, Wade asks, “Do you really love me? Or just my lower half?”

Peter blushes, pulling the blankets up. “I can’t be held responsible for what I say during intercourse.”

“I know,” Wade answers.

“I love you,” Peter says quickly, looking away.

Wade looks at him, as though from afar. “I love you too,” he says again, voice quiet and reverent. “I want you long term, Webs. I want you weekday and weekend.”

Suddenly warm and bashful, Peter rolls closer to the wall, letting himself lie beneath the breezy window. Despite the satisfaction in his gut and the complete exhaustion in his muscles, he knows he has to get back to work tomorrow. He’s itching for it.

“I love spending time with you, Wade, but I think this whole taking-weekends-off thing is huge fail.” He grins sheepishly. “I can’t handle it, to be honest. I like ending my nights in your bed when I feel like I’ve earned it.”

Winking, Wade glances at him. “Yeah, I kinda figured you’d hate it. All play and no work makes Peter a very strung-out spider.”

“Solid idea, though,” he offers, peering through the screen at the city buildings, silhouetted on the dark blue sky. “Just sorta dunno what to do with myself is the thing.” Just sorta feels like if he sits on it for too long without acting, everything he believes in will come undone and leave him falling on his face.

“Kid, you just gotta learn how to chill out,” Wade suggests softly. “If you look for trouble in every corner, I promise you, you’re gonna find it.”

“That’s the problem,” he near-growls back. “It’s in every corner. How can you ever stop all of it?”

“Can’t save them all,” Wade reminds him gently.

It’s silent for a second, the screen rattling against the window pane. Then Wade clears his throat and says, “Happy birthday, Peter. I won’t say another word about it. No more cake jokes, I promise. But I just wanted to get that out there.”

Peter sighs deeply and runs a hand up his face.

“Gettin’ close to your age, Deadpool,” he says with delicate amicability, looking the older over. Peter is 35 now, not far from Wade’s 42, but the merc also has an extra decade hidden inside that healing-factor sanctuary of a body.

“Can’t catch up to me, baby boy. No matter how fit I getcha.”

Peter knows that Wade isn’t even finished with 3/4ths of a normal human life span yet, and still, he can’t help but think about how Wade looks more man than immortal. It’s not even a contest.

Peter takes a shuddering breath, taking the sentence in.

“What happens when I catch up?” he asks finally. “What happens when I pass you?”

He hears the question slip out of him, and suddenly it’s like all the tension in his body comes rattling out, hitting the air and evaporating with a loud hiss. He might not like the answer, but at least he’s asked. At least he’s done something about it.

The mattress answers as Wade rolls to his side and throws an arm over Peter, using it to pull him in.

“When you’re what, 50? 70? 101? Because you seem like the type to live to a 101.”

“I’m serious,” Peter whines, and Wade hears the distress in his voice.

“Then I watch you get old, Webs. And I spend hours trying to suck your useless, flaccid dick. I spend _hours_ trying to make you come until I literally cry with frustration.”

Peter makes an agonized sound, a disbelief and amusement mixed together. “You won’t want me when I’m old. When I’m old and you still look like this.”

Wade’s voice hardens. “Oh, you don’t know what I want, baby boy.” The heat of his skin is warm on Peter’s face. “You’ll grow old always being loved. I’ll give you sponge baths and push your wheel chair, and it will get me hard as fuck, but I’ll wait all day, every day for you to get doped up on morphine before I fuck your old, saggy body, if that’s what I have to do.”

Peter scrunches his nose in disgust, but then finds himself laughing.

“That’s fucked up, Wade, be serious.”

“It’s truth, son.”

And fuck him, but Peter kind of believes it. He’s disbelieved in more outlandish things when it comes to Deadpool.

… He doesn’t know why Wade lights up like a 101 year old’s birthday cake when he sees Peter. Doesn’t know why he chameleons to become playful or belligerent or serious right when Peter needs it.

But he does. And because of that, Peter can see Wade carrying him to old age, and then right back out of the world again.

He doesn’t know if he feels sad. He feels… in love. He settles on that, pulling Wade’s arms tighter around him.

“Goodnight, I guess,” he trails hesitantly, stretching his limbs out as far as they will go, a yawn racking through his body. The pain in his muscles snaps back to remind him it’s there.

“Goodnight, XXXV,” Wade sighs in a hushed voice, kissing the side of his face.

Twenty minutes later, the dreams are thick in Peter’s hazy, half-awake state as his aching body simultaneously drags him down and keeps him awake. He almost attributes it to a dream, another sensation in the dark blur of his consciousness, but it’s enough to get him to open his tired eyes.

Curled up beside him, Wade has his arms wrapped around himself. He’s weeping.

Peter’s heart twists. Gently, without preamble, he turns and pulls the older’s larger body against him, wrapping him in his arms the best he can. Wade doesn’t quip, doesn’t make a crude joke through his tears, or even try to reassure Peter. And Peter loves him for that. He just leans into the younger’s embrace and keeps crying until his chest heaves and he starts to hiccup.

Wade Wilson cannot imagine an eternity.

He cannot prepare for a time when a lifespan will be over in a moment, when a single event is a meaningless splash in an endless, vicious ocean. When a woman being beaten by her husband right above his fucking head cannot upset him. When love cannot move him.

With all that time, everything will get swallowed up in the blink of an eye.

But right now, he’s still young. He’s still at the foot of it. Peter will burn bright and long, and once he is gone, everything can become a shadow flickering in a sea of black. But Peter got here before eternity starts. He will not be lost to it.

-

The angry husband comes home in the middle of the night.

They both awaken to his presence, announced with a bang. There’s more screaming. It startles Peter so bad he forgets that he has any instincts at all, clinging to Wade and hiding safely below the blanket.

“Fuck, I knew this would happen,” Wade growls, more to the universe than to Peter. “It’s always the same with these people.”

Peter is shaking a little, jarred from his interrupted sleep. His body is alight with pain.

“I’m sorry, Webs,” he hears Wade say, feeling the older grab him suddenly in his arms, offering comfort. “I wish it wasn’t like this.”

Peter clenches his teeth and nods, cuddling against Wade’s side.

The noise dies down, but they don’t go to sleep for a long while afterwards.

-

They’re the ones making the noise come Sunday morning.

It’s only Wade clapping and him whooping in surprise, but it sounds like a goddamn parade to Peter, because he’s finally taken down the snake.

“Great fucking endurance, Spiderman,” Wade congratulates him, dangling off the top bunk. “You did so fucking good! Now wait until you have to fight the giant gorilla.”

“Wait, what gorilla?”

“Nothing,” Wade grins.

Peter lowers his arms, stretched high in victory, and sets the controller down. “Here’s to being fucking relentless.”

“That attitude’ll get you far in Krav, my boy.”

Peter yawns and stands, glancing at the sunny day.

“I hate to say it, Wade, but I actually want a huge fucking cake now, so thanks a lot.”

“Mission. Fucking. Accomplished.” He shoots Peter a proud look. “Vanilla? Chocolate? Make it happen, baby boy.”

“Lemme just swing on out and I’ll be back in a few?” He pulls his gloves off and puts them into his pocket, adjusting his cuffs.

“Oooh, please bring candles. And fire.”

“Just cake,” Peter says sternly. He pulls out his mask to finish off his suit, getting ready to ride webs to the nearest supermarket. “Need anything serious?”

“Just a piece of dat ass when you get back. Also, cake.”

Peter smiles and shoots him a finger-gun signal, then leaps out the window, catching himself on a web.

While he’s gone, Wade hears the neighbors’ fight start up again. It gets bad. More screaming and thudding, more crashing and screeching. He jumps to his feet, ready to take fucking action, but then forces himself back in check, breathing in deeply.

He won’t betray Peter’s trust. Even when he hears a sickening thump reverberate through the ceiling, he simply calms himself down and dials 911 again, telling them that it’s urgent.

Ten minutes later, Peter comes swinging back through the window, a cake tucked under his arm.

“Heads up, I called the police back,” he says immediately. “Neighbors. Sounded bad.”

Really bad. So bad that he doesn’t want to have to tell Peter what it sounded like. He just hopes the police get there soon, hopes that he hasn’t just let somebody die.

Peter stops and looks towards the ceiling gravely. He sets down the cake.

“Okay, Wade. Thank you.” He pauses. “I’m gonna go change and then we can have a _small_ celebration, okay?” He smiles and pulls out a carton of birthday candles, but the sight quickly barrels over Wade’s understanding of _small_.

“Yes!” Wade exclaims, snatching them. “Yes, yes! I’m excited! 35 and thrive!”

Peter gives a pleased, empathetic laugh. He steps out of Wade’s bedroom and slips into the bathroom down the hall.

He pulls off his gloves and turns on the faucet. Looking nervously at the ceiling, he lets the water wash the blood off his hands.


End file.
